Wounds of Vvardenfell
by Dienekes
Summary: In Vvardenfell, of the Dunmer province Morrowind, the gates to Oblivion have shut, but the Daedra still haunt the island. The Imperials have withdrawn, and the island stands ready to fall into chaos and civil war. Some want peace, others want violence.
1. Chapter 1: Bloody Stage

The Wounds of Vvardenfell: A Morrowind Fanfic

_Author's Note: I don't own this and I don't own these ideas. These are just expressions of my appreciation for the Elder Scrolls universe. All praise Bethesda *Worships* _

_This is a Morrowind fanfic, but I'll do my best to make it accessible to even those who haven't enjoyed that beautiful game. I always appreciate good criticism as well as praise, ego-maniac that I am. By criticism, I love any kind of criticism that I can get my hands on (so long as it's specific enough that I know what you're talking about) _

**Chapter 1: Blood-Smeared Stage**

_"Each event is preceded by Prophecy. But without the hero, there is no Event." _

_**Sorasa Arstasu**_

The roar of the Deadroth made Sorasa Arstasu's armor rattle. Paradoxically, flashes of blinding light and crashes of thunder tore through the storming sky.

The rain pattered against her ritual bonemold armor, dripping through the narrow holes of her bronze helmet, down her face. Her heart beat like a hammer in the hands of a drunk Nord. Behind their army, loomed Vivec, the glorious capital city of Vvardenfell that was built out of the calm waters of the Inner Sea. It was the shining jewel of the Dunmer in their home province of Morrowind.

The city of Vivec consisted of a number of huge structures, connected by beautiful arched bridges. Sorasa was part of the army which defended the main bridge. In preparation of the Daedra attack, the other two bridges had been destroyed. The third and largest, bridge, however, was left standing. Sorasa and a battalion of Ordinators guarded that bridge in order to, as her commander had said, _Draw the bastards onto our spears until there's none left. _However, Sorasa felt some shameful doubts eating at her like a plague. She knew that if anything would get her people through this crisis it would be faith. Without faith, she was nothing.

"FOR AMSILVI!" shouted one of her dark elf comrades. A roar went up along the line. _For the honor of my dishonored house. For my people. For Vivec! _Sorasa, her eyes gleaming like steel, bashed her spear against her shield, adding to the clamor of her comrades.

The Daedra stampede thundered towards them, pouring over the hills like locusts. She could feel the ground shaking beneath her feet. The Ordinator line quieted, and for a moment before the enemy hit them, held it's breath. Golden-masked warriors braced their shields and brandished their ebony weapons with grim expectation.

The Daedra slammed into the Ordinator's shield wall with a thunderous crash, a crush of bodies pressing down on the faithful.

Ordinators were flung back with cries of panic as roaring Daedroth tore through them. A hissing Clanfear slamming it's head into her shield, Sorasa's armored boots slid through the slick mud, but the shield of the Ordinator behind her held her steady long enough for her to drop her shield and drive her ebony spearpoint through the creature's neck. "UUAHHH!" she cried, twisting the spear and pulling it out with a spray of blood.

Her racing heart had not even had a chance to beat before a flash of lightning revealed a Dremora's swinging a cruel mace. Sorasa blocked, feeling the crunch of her bonemold shield as the mace punched into the material. She felt the shock shoot up her arm. Lashing out, she struck at the beast with her shield. It stumbled back and gave Sorasa the moment of indecision she needed to find the weak point in his neck armor, driving her spear through it. The Dremora gurgled and blood splattered out. Sorasa felt it splatter on her helmet, the black blood of the monster dripping down her polished bronze helm like bloody tears.

She lashed out time and time again at the approaching enemies, piercing them with her long ebony talon. The bodies began to pile and her arm began to burn with effort. The screams, shrieks, and bangs of metal and armor roared around her, a twisted symphony of death. Her comrades on either side were spreading out. Their battle line was starting to break up, the demonic hordes began to push through their line. Ordinators in shining golden armor fell motionless to the ground, splashing in the growing red puddles.

As her comrades began to get pushed back, Sorasa struck out with her spear again, but her enemy was not deterred. The Daedroth roared, tore her spear from her hands and tossed it aside like a twig. Sorasa's arm was nearly dislocated as her weapon was torn away, stumbling with the force. She looked up to the beast that towered twice her size as she recovered her balance, but a flash of claws streaked past her. She felt a wet and numb sensation in her abdomen as her blood squirted from her destroyed armor. The Daedroth, a huge armored creature with a large snout and deadly claws like small swordpoints, let out a bone-shaking roar.

She fell for a moment, letting out a cry of pain as warm blood seeped down her waist, but in a flash of anger and determination, she ran at the Daedroth, unsheathed her ebony shortsword and with a full leap, plunged her sword overhand into the beast's throat. As the beast tried to recover, her hands sizzled with electricity, and she sent smoldering lightning down the length of her sword into the animal's inner throat. The flashes of her electricity magic strobed along the faltering Ordinator battle line.

Her lumbering target shrieked in pain, smoke pouring from it's nostrils before it shuddered and tumbled backwards.

Sorasa fell back to her comrades, preparing for the next set of enemies. Those who saw her dispatch the Daedroth let out a cheer. But before she could kill her next enemy, Sorasa felt herself falling. Dizzy and feeling faint, she slumped into the mud, the rain and battle splashing around her. Warm red liquid warmed her stomach, spreading out from her torn armor. She could taste blood on her lips. _I better not be dying, _she thought defiantly. Another Ordinator fell to the ground beside her, his head separated cleanly from his body. _I still haven't . . . still haven't. . . _

When she woke, pale light splayed across her face. Her eyes fluttered sluggishly open. The sandstone ceiling flickered in a wavering battle between candlelight and darkness. She rubbed her head as if perhaps rubbing could drive the stiffness and pain from her aching head.

"Morning greet you, sister."

_Who the hell? _Sorasa pulled herself up, appraising her surroundings. No sooner did she pull herself up then she felt a sharp stab of pain pierce through her stomach like a molten blade. Sorasa fell back onto the bed and let out a hiss. 

Sorasa sized up the man who spoke to her. He had the face of a highborn Dunmer, probably the weakling of his family. His red eyes glimmering in the candlelight, a sense of warmth radiated from him. _Healer, undoubtedly._ He wore robes of the temple, which meant that she was wounded worse than usual, and he'd had to administer magic to her over a long period to bring her back to consciousness.

"Don't worry, sister, the pain is just-"

Sorasa stopped the healer mid-sentence with a sharp glare. "I know shadow pain well enough, spare me the lecture." She'd had deep injuries healed before and she knew that often the pain of the wound remained for hours, sometimes even days, after the wound itself was tended to by a healer. But that was just pain.

Gritting her teeth, Sorasa sat up in her plain bed and tore the blankets that covered her aside, tossing them upon the carpeted floor. She'd been clothed in a generic cotton shirt and a pair of britches, both were loose fitting and she appeared to be wearing nothing beneath. _The healer must have changed my clothes. _

Smoldering, Sorasa looked around the room. Her shirt was sleeveless, her slender arms waist, and legs were covered in feminine muscle that she'd earned from many hours drilling, marching, and fighting. Her short black hair had grown in a bit since she'd last sheared it, and hung down to her brow. She was streamlined, but hard as a nail.

"Brother, a robe," she demanded, stretching out her arm.

"Ah, yes," he replied hurriedly, fumbling up from his chair. He checked a few wicker baskets, pulling out a pale, hooded robe and handed it to her, glimpsing her way with a look of mixed curiosity and caution.

Sorasa quickly robed herself, feeling the comforting press of a robe around her body. "You changed me from my clothes," Sorasa stated coldly, glancing sideways at the priest.

"Yes, Muthserah," he replied without apology.

"Were it not for your healing of me, I would break your jaw priest," she growled before flipping the hood of the temple robe over her head. She paused at the door. "Where is my armor?"

"The Hall of Justice in your barracks," the priest replied.

Sorasa huffed in annoyance and pushed her way through the room's door. Emerging into Vivec's temple, she saw robed priests gathered around various shrines, praying with their knees on the sandstone floor to the saints in unintelligible murmurs. The acrid smell of incense hit her nostrils and the smoke hung in the air like a fine mist. _If these frightened old men learned how to pray with a sword, we'd have pushed the demons back a long time ago, _Sorasa thought.

She left the High Fane, the famed temple of Vivec city and quickly made her way to the offices of the hall of Justice. When she approached the office, she could hear a heated debate raging behind the office's closed doors. Sorasa did her best to make out the words. "When Vvardenfell burns, you'll know you could have stopped it," an unfamiliar voice said, muffled by the closed door.

The second voice was familiar, the voice of her commander, Elam Andas. "Find me a mage who can conjure up replacements for all my men before you lecture me about my duties. We paid dearly to protect this city. I've heard your demands. Now it is time for you to leave."

Sorasa stepped to the side of the hallway in time for an angry Dunmer to storm from the offices, pacing indignantly past her. By the way he was dressed in imported imperial clothes, Sorasa guessed that he was a Hlaalu statesman. The Hlaalu were greedy, dishonorable, and served the Imperials like dogs. She had no love for their house. She shot him a sharp glare but he marched by without a glance. _Scum. _

Sorasa walked into the office, her bare feet barely making a noise upon the sandstone floor. Andas rubbed his temples in a sign of frustration and didn't notice her enter. Scrolls were piled upon his desk, and he sat in his Ordinator armor, albeit absent a helmet. To his left, a scribe scribbled furiously on a scroll. "Commander," she said stiffly, offering a half-bow. The commander regarded Sorasa and tilted his head in affirmation.

"Sorasa. It's good you're up. You're needed."

Sorasa dropped her eyes. "I was careless in the field. I apologize for my inadequacy."

Commander Andas face distorted into a grimace. "We took eighty percent casualties on the bridge that night, Sorasa. You survived and that's good enough for me."

"Eighty percent?" Sorasa exclaimed. "How is it the city hasn't been overrun?"

"The gates to Oblivion are closed."

"Praise Vivec," Sorsa said with a dark grin.

"No," Andas said, narrowing his eyes, "praise Cyrodill. A champion of Cyrodill closed the gates and saved Tamriel. It was announced yesterday."

Sorasa spat to show her disdain. "The Empire would stop at nothing to take credit for this. If we couldn't close the gates, how are we supposed to believe that an Outlander dog could manage it? Clearly this was the work of Lord Vivec. Perhaps the Neravarine."

"You know the grace of humility. Have you forgotten it?" Andas asked sternly.

"_I shall neither strut nor preen in vanity, but shall know and give thanks for my place in the greater world_," Sorasa muttered.

"You remember the words. See to it that you don't forget their meaning. We need to do the best we can with what we have. Vivec, the Neravarine, are gone and we have a responsibility to do all we can in their absence. It's up to us."

_If the Neravarine were here. . . my comrades wouldn't have been slaughtered. _"Yes sir."

"The Temple's Order of War was nearly wiped out, Sorasa. You are one of just a few surviving Ordinators. The Imperials have withdrawn their soldiers. Their forts stand empty. Bandits and criminals have begun to get bolder and we still have no word of Lord Vivec. The temple needs to impose order on Vvardenfell before bandits start overrunning cities. The Great Houses and clans are itching to settle their old feuds. If we don't re-establish order, there will be civil war. If we let Vvardenfell descend into chaos, our people will bleed. We must prevent that."

"Deploy me where you need, sir."

"We need to replenish our ranks. A healer from here in the High Fane tended to you for the past few days. He is to be admitted into the Ordinators. He will accompany you, and you will teach him."

_That weakling? _The last thing Sorasa wanted was to have a soft-skinned twittering fool following her around. "The training takes years! There are rituals. Rites. Trials," Sorasa protested.

"Tradition is too slow for our circumstances, Sorasa. Grumble if you wish, but train him as I've commanded, or I'll have you whipped."

Sorasa glowered, but nodded reluctantly. "Yes sir."

"Good. Patrol the road between Vivec and Seyda Neen. Do your best to suppress any bandits you find." Sorasa smiled. She liked the word suppress. It was such a pretty word for "kill them all".

Sorasa returned to her barracks first, retrieving her armor from her locked chest beneath her bed. When she pulled it out, she was glad to see that her shredded cuirass had been mended and polished, gleaming as if it were new. She held up the armor reverently, letting the golden surface glow in the candlelight. She brought it to her lips, kissing it gently. "Glory of my ancestors," Sorasa muttered in silent prayer.

As she strapped on each piece of her familiar armor, she felt more at home. Finally, she took her masked helm, engraved with the grimacing face of her ancestor, and, sweeping back her black hair, pulled it over her head.

The red of her eyes glowed from the holes in her helm as she strode into the hall. _I might have to train you, runt, but I'm not letting you drag me down. I'd sooner leave you dead in a ditch, _she thought.


	2. Chapter 2: Players and Power

The Wounds of Vvardenfell

**Chapter 2:** **Players and Power**

_**Sorasa Astasu**_

The day started early for Sorasa. She swung her legs from her bunk in a swift motion, taking in her first breaths of the day. The room had no windows and was closed from the outside, but she could sense that it was the early morning. The rest of her comrades in the barracks around her were still asleep.

Outside, she knew, the first pale rays of the sun were glimmering over the dark horizon and playing upon the banners which hung from Vivec city's glorious cantons. Still, the banners had been brighter once. As with all things, the fabric of them faded from the weather and the rain. Sorasa swept a few lingering strands of black hair from her brow, willing her grogginess to pass.

As she made her bed, she noted that the orderly rows of candlelit bunks were hauntingly empty. Usually, when she woke, she could peer down the row of beds and see nineteen recognizable lumps within the blankets, but today there were only seven. In the other barracks, the situation was quite the same. For a city that once housed near a thousand Ordinators, only a few sparse hundred remained.

For an order as influential as the Ordinator's, their quarters were not very extravagant. While their weapons and armor were exquisite enough to buy some of the most beautiful manors of Vvardenfell, their food, clothes, and living spaces were as Spartan as the most humble of temple initiates.

It was best that way, Sorasa thought. _One should not become an Ordinator for wealth or luxury. Our life is one of duty_.

Only three of the seven lumps did Sorasa recognize; the other four were new recruits, Ordinators only in name. They hadn't yet earned their place here.

Sorasa had missed the funeral ceremony while she was being healed of her injuries. She couldn't help but feel a deep regret that she'd missed it.

Walking to the front of the long room, she approached a row of wicker baskets that were propped together against the wall. It was the duty of temple initiates to wash the clothes and set them into the baskets during the night.

She rummaged through the basket, looking for an unstained set of underclothes and a shirt that would fit her slender frame. The trick was to find the cleanest and softest of the clothes. She changed efficiently, shedding her soiled clothes, throwing them into the dirty basket.

For a moment, she stood naked, the curves and her toned muscles emphasized by the flickering candlelight. They had no changing area. Ordinators were not supposed to be modest-only faithful to their people and the duties they had sworn themselves to. Sorasa had felt wayward glances upon her body by her comrades before, but she did her best to not let it bother her. She was an oddity. There were few female Ordinators so she was bound to attract some looks. She pulled the shirt over her head and she knew she'd chosen well. The shirt must have been newly purchased-the fabric was soft and smooth like a warm embrace and it fit her body snugly.

Hearing a loud snore, Sorasa cast a contemptuous glance to one of the slumbering recruits . _Is he mine? _She strode over to his bedside, her narrowed red eyes focusing down to the childish-looking Dunmer man. _No, mine has a softer looking face. This one is probably stronger than my weak one. _As if he felt her malevolence, his sleeping face darkened. Sorasa did her best not to chuckle.

She couldn't help but feel that these soft children did not belong in her barracks, sleeping in the beds of better men. She was amazed that Commander Andas had ordered it, but it was not her place to disagree. There were times when she chafed against the core tenant of her order: _Duty. _Sorasa knew that it was a word that could bring both solace and frustration.

The barracks felt more like a natural home to her than any other place she'd lived; the new initiates felt like intruders in it. _We have been decimated as it is. Now we are to be saddled with weaklings? Our order will be crippled. Our reputation will be ruined. _

Sorasa huffed with frustration, leaning her back against the wall. _Of our barracks who is left? _

She looked from the beds, and noticed the three slumbering bodies that were familiar. She could tell each of them by the way they lay, or by what little of their bodies were showing beneath the shrouds of their blankets. _Dras, Dalan, and Llandus. That makes four survivors out of twenty. _She knew them well over many years.

It was essential for a warrior to know her comrades. It helped them fight as one. That said, she didn't really care for them, or anyone else, for that matter. Still, it was comforting to see that at least three of her comrades had survived the battle outside Vivec. She smiled sheepishly, but the smile evaporated. Smiles never lasted very long on her lips.

Last night, she had been the last to retire. The night was already mature when she'd gone to her bed. It had taken her hours of workout and sword practice to silence the turmoil within her and so she had trained well into the night.

Despite the sleep, her arms still ached from all the training, though it had been worth driving the emotions away. Emotions like those would only serve to distract her. Though, when she woke, she had felt an ache within her gut. Sometimes-especially during tragedies-dreams went to dark places and reveled in weakness.

Sorasa rapidly began to check beds, looking for the priest that she had to babysit.

_There he is._ She found him sleeping in Daras' old bunk with a smug smile on his silly face. Sorasa felt a flash of anger and slapped him.

Startled, his eyes shot open and he cradled his jaw. "What did-" He rasped softly, probably to avoid waking the others that slept beside him. _How considerate, _she thought contemptuously.

"Rise," she growled.

She left him to find a new set of clothes as she strapped on her armor. As she swept her black hair from her brow and drew her helm down upon her head, she felt a sense of peace and order settle into her. When the armor was pulled around her, she knew that she was strong.

She glanced towards her charge to see that he was still fumbling with the basket of clothes. _Let him fumble. He has much to learn. _

Making her way outside, Sorasa saw that the city of Vivec still had not woken from its slumber, and a heavy fog hung over the ocean as its waves peacefully lapped against the base many feet below.

From where she stood, the imposing cantons of St. Olms and St. Delyn loomed to the north, huge sandstone structures, pyramids with a domed top that rose from the waves. _Ah Vivec, _Sorasa thought, closing her eyes and feeling the moist air of the morning fill her lungs.

And even further north beyond them, she could see the other Cantons rising up hundreds of feet like mountains in the fog, each structure a wonder in of itself. The elegant arched bridges which connected the many them together hung gracefully, the banners beneath them waving in the morning air.

But Sorasa turned south. Making her way up a long walkway, she climbed to the top of the Temple Canton's courtyard. In the middle of the clearing stood the High Fane, the most glorious temple to Amsilvi that was built by the faithful, and the crowning jewel of the Temple Canton.

The beautiful temple rose as three tall pyramids, representing the trinity of the Amsilvi. As she stepped inside, she was pleased to see that the temple was mostly empty. The sound of her boots hitting the sandstone echoed up the magnificently tall ceilings of the High Fane. The shrines stood empty, free of sycophants and complainers, despairing about lack of money and food.

She was greeted by Endryn Llethan in his rich blue robes, a devoted monk and master of the temple. He was handsome, despite his age, and the fact that lines had begun to etch into her face. His position of power and her dignity both appealed to Sorasa. "Sorasa. May the day greet you warmly." Like most Dunmer, his voice was raspy, almost a growl. Still, there was warmth in it.

"And you as well, brother. How is the state of our temple?" she said, her voice muffled by her golden mask. Even though it was not new, she was still impressed by Endryn's ability to tell her apart from the other Ordinators. Most couldn't tell the Ordinators apart, even the rare females. She liked Endryn; he was faithful, and a capable master of the High Fane temple and he oversaw the temple matters in Vivec very well.

A grim look came over Endryn. "Each day we pray for the return of Vivec. With the gates to Oblivion, the withdrawal of the Imperial troops. . . these are dark times, We need his guidance more than ever," he muttered, speaking softly.

"We must have faith. Vivec will return," Sorasa assured. She smiled beneath her mask. "Brother, if you need our help, please just ask. I would be privileged to assist you myself."

Endryn smiled weakly. "I will keep praying." Sorasa's hidden smile faded away and she nodded curtly, passing him.

She knelt before the shrine to Vivec's Fury, placing a handful of coins respectfully in front of the shrine. Kneeling down until the horsehair plume of her golden helmet touched the shrine, Sorasa whispered her prayer softer than the shifting of air in a room.

When she'd finished, she left the temple to find that the sun had begun to illuminate the fog and that the heat of the light had begun to burn it away.

"I'm ready when you are, Serah."

Sorasa turned to find her initiate in a humble brown robe, arms folded across his chest with a warm smile on his lips.

He'd not yet earned the privilege of wearing the sacred armor or wielding the weapons of the order, she'd decided.

"How did you know I was here?" Sorasa demanded icily.

"Ahh-well I had morning duty in the High Fane when I was a low-ranked member of the temple," he replied with an apologetic smile. "I saw that you prayed every morning to the Shrine of Vivec's Fury, though you always spoke softly. I was always curious what the words to your prayer were."

Sorasa narrowed her eyes. "That's none of your concern."

"I'm sorry," he said with a carefree smile, "I didn't mean to offend you."

Sorasa's glare didn't waver. He didn't look sorry.

They set off to patrol the road that they'd been assigned from Vivec northeast to the coastal shanty town of Seyda Neen. They passed a few travelers who spoke of bandits.

Noon came and passed, the sun glinting off of Sorasa's golden armor and they still didn't see any highwaymen. She knew that there were countless caves and caverns in the hills and mountains on either side of the road and that many of those caverns hid criminals, outlanders, thieves, and murderers.

Her initiate made various attempts to talk to her, but mostly she met his words with terse replies or silence. Still, he told her that his name was Fadryl. It was a handsome Dunmer name, Sorasa thought; of course, she didn't say that. She'd just replied "Hn."

Eventually, a black object appeared by the side of the road near the junction of the Ebonheart road. When they approached they found a corpse with a few feathered arrows protruding from his back. Sorasa knelt beside it, and found an empty leather pouch resting in the road's dust. "Robbed," she said calmly, dropping the empty pouch from her hands.

They'd heard reports and complaints from citizens along the road, but this was the first physical evidence they'd found. Sorasa scanned the hilly landscape that surrounded them, as well as the steep hills and small mountains that were just a few hundred yards inland.

"They're watching us," Sorasa muttered angrily, her dispassionate golden helm scanning the hills. She couldn't see them, but still she _knew._

After a few moments of silence Sorasa said "We'll need to use you as bait."

Fadryl guffawed. "Bait? I'm unarmored."

She ignored him, her gaze never leaving the hills. "We just need to capture one of the bandits. . ."

"Excuse me, Sorasa. Just to make sure we're thinking the same thing, we find a guy who's been killed by arrows and you want me to wait around until the killers return to kill me?"

"They probably only killed him once he ran. You just stand still, and give them whatever you have in your pockets. They probably won't kill you. I'll be shadowing you closely."

"_Probably_ isn't very reassuring," Fardryl muttered.

She turned her helm to him. He could see the glow of her eyes beneath the shining mask. "You will do as I say."

_**Duke Vendam Dren**_

Vendam Dren gazed from the battlements upon the southern sea. It was just a small strip of water that separated the island of Vvardenfell from the rest of the province of Morrowind. So any goods from the Imperial trading centers had to be loaded onto ships to be sailed to the island of Vvardenfell. Ships, like little specs, streamed from the trade ports to the harbor of Ebonheart and Vivec.

He counted the specs that were heading to Ebonheart. For every ship that docked in Ebonheart, he got a duty from the ship's captain. It was one of the largest contributions to his coffers.

From the top of the ramparts of his Grand Council Chambers, his fortified island fortress connected to the bustling markets of Ebonheart city by a long bridge, Vendam could see Ebonheart's markets, and thousands of people scurrying below. It sometimes struck him a odd that he had dominion over so many.

The fortress he stood atop was built to withstand an attack of thousands. It was a small rocky island with walls standing over a hundred feet tall and a single narrow bridge by which to approach it. To invest this much money into the construction of their seat of governance, the Imperials must have anticipated trouble.

In his position as Duke of Vvardenfell, Vendam Dren wielded great influence, serving as a conduit between local and Imperial power. It was a delicate balancing act, but it could be played to great benefit, if the player knew the pieces and how to move them.

He sipped some of his brandy, spiced just as he liked it.

Finishing the cup, he held it out. "Top me off, Quintus," Vendam commanded. His Imperial squire clad in full steel obeyed, dipping the flask and filling Dren's cup. The boy's father was a wealthy councilman in Cyrodil and was grooming the boy for a career as a foreign adviser to the Empire. Quintus didn't speak often-a trait that Dren valued in him; when he did speak he sounded like a prideful little brat.

Dren provided for the boy's food and lodging from his own purse, but the deal wasn't without its benefits. So long as Quintus was by his side, he had the ear of one of the more prominent members of the Elder Council's inner circle-what little good that did him.

He'd tried to use the boy's influence to get the Empire to commit more Imperial troops to re-establish the garrisons in the interior forts, but apparently the new Chancellor, Ocato, oversaw the deployment of Imperial legions himself and, as far as Dren's correspondence with Quintus' father had gone on, Ocato proved himself very stubborn in not deploying any more legions to Vvardenfell. _Ocato considers the threat of instability within Morrowind to be secondary to the threats posed by Black Marsh and Skyrim. I will do my best to convince him of Morrowind's need of additional soldiers, _Quintus' father had wrote.

_But your best isn't good enough, _Vendam thought.

Vendam turned, hearing the click of steel boots upon the stone walkway. "Sir, your guest has arrived," a guard stated, bowing deeply.

"Send her up."

Vendam leaned against the ramparts, looking to the door that she'd climb up through. Around him stood a number of counselors, from both the Empire and influential Dunmer from Vvardenfell most chatting amongst themselves. _Too many ears, _he thought.

"Counselors, I'd prefer this meeting be more private. I'll see her with just my personal guards. Please, assemble in the main hall. I'll join you for dinner soon."

The counselors drifted away until only Vendam's closest guards were within earshot in their place atop the castle walls.

A dark elf woman ascended the stairwell. She was garbed in a worn-looking crimson gown. It was probably her best set of clothing, but it was underwhelming and the harshness of her eyes and roughness of her hands betrayed her low class. Still, there was a certain austere beauty to her.

She bowed, but her eyes waited for him to make the first move. _She must have been surprised by my invitation. She wants to see what I know and is waiting for me to act first. Clever girl, _he thought appreciatively.

"Do you know the punishment for serving the Camonna Tong?" he asked simply.

"I do not, Duke Dren," she responded carefully.

"There is no particular punishment," Vendam said with an melodramatic frown. "Fortunately, as Duke, I am allowed a certain liberty. I can make punishments up as I go." His crimson eyes sparkled with amusement. "Flaying, slavery, sodomizing, slowly crushing to death, pulling the offender apart with ropes, I could do any of those things, or anything more horrible that might come to my mind."

"I'm not-"

"But you are. You're a member of the Camonna Tong and you once served my brother. I'm sure you remember your old master?" Vendam paused, leaning back against the ramparts as the waves crashed behind him. "My brother tried to kill the Neravarine and it cost him his life-a foolish error" Vendam brought his cup to his lips, taking another soft sip from it.

"My brother kept records about your organization, sweet Llaynasa. I found that list, and now I know every little dirty secret of the Camonna Tong, which is why I knew to summon you here. I can have your entire organization exterminated." Vendam let those words hang in the air for a few moments before he proceeded. "That might even be the moral choice, considering some of the things your little band of misfits has been engaged in."

"But you haven't wiped us out," Llaynasa replied with a glare. "Why not?"

"Because the Camonna Tong belongs to me now," Vendam replied. "And I have a mission for you."


End file.
